Late mid-morning. You are concerned about your concept of self-education, that unrealized weak links may counter your holistic approach to your humanity in terms of the whole of the species.
Thinking does not make something so, Amorella. Personal reform based on imagination is not reality. What may work well for the books may not work in my personal life. Sometimes I forget what side of the computer screen I am on, that’s what it comes down to. The forgetting is momentary, and while the computer is on. Turn the computer off or at least to sleep, and I am still here. I know which way the wind blows; the computer does not. A record of thoughts does not substantiate what goes on in my world or anyone else’s world. I need to better remember this. The notes are for the books and nothing else.
You don’t need to convince me, boy. You see me on the computer screen and when you shut the computer down I am still here just like you are. From time to time you ask me a question that I can still respond to (and do) via the tiny unconscious nerves surrounding the eye. I can easily say “yes” or “no” in less than a wink. You take me into account, boy, because I am here. Today we continue on chapter seven where you can see your thoughts a bit more packaged. Post. – Amorella.
Almost time for the nightly news. You finished scene five and the only thing you really understand is the conclusion. Add the scene and post. More later, but then, perhaps not. - Amorella.
Scene 5
Mother approached Grandfather Takis on his own turf near the bank of the Styx and found him sitting cross-legged under an old tree staring out across the forever long and winding river. She watched his eyes glance her way but he did not otherwise move from his seated position. Mother found herself smiling and replicating his sitting position to his right. “Grandfather,” she said child-like. Tell me a story I have not heard before.”
He smiled reflectively causing his ruddy cheeks to rise and his eyelids to narrow. Above the eye gleams his thick bushy dark brows arched almost to the common white turban wrap on top of his head. He turned towards his granddaughter and said, “Gloama, I have just the story for you.” With that he moved cat quickly, shifting his position to fully face his granddaughter. “This tree we find ourselves sitting under has a story neither of us have ever heard. This is the story I will tell.”
A flash of unrehearsed thought lit Mother’s mind.
Grandfather Takis points to a not so bright star in the night sky and declares, “We are from there,” then he points to the soil beneath their feet, “to here.”
I, Gloama, turn in this same moment and ask, “How can we be here and there at the same time?”
I, Gloama, am the first human being who died and did not die at the same time. Grandfather knows I am reading his thoughts, grinned Gloama in delight.
A Voice: “Gloama. Look at your Grandpa’s eyes as you look deep down into yourself child. I am Grandma Earth and I was your nature inside and out. The white turban on my head ain’t nothin' but the stars.
The white in Grandma Earth’s eyes reflected in her Grandfather’s eyes showing her Earth’s dark pupils were disappearing inside her Grandfather and herself. Grandma Earth’s Voice asserted, “I got me a chant to take us from a story in the past to a story in the future. I’m the board on which the Shamans dance.
The flash of unrehearsed thought absorbed a kernel in Mother’s mind.
Grandfather Panagiotakis’s
“The Styx Bank Tree’s Story”
The anchor, my chorded root, begins unattached in a warm string of thoughtanlight produced, held and managed in a solidified Nourishstance of fertilized EnthusaWill. The circumference beyond my main root is a hollowed black, forever bark without border, a non-binding, a non-circumciseable skin-like extension, if you will.
Roots are deeper than the thought they can produce. Extensions, clusters of a lesser light unseen by conscious bodies without skin or bone. Light unfelt by organically spread dimensions unknown even to Betweeners. Egg whites of light, thinly pancaked by the frost from which the concept of cold is born. Roots eggshell light and on edge thin, stepping stones upon stepping-stones, thin sharp blades of pre-yoked Forms far from the Tree filled with thin-leafed universes, nutshells, if you will where consciousness can shout and hear their echoes in a seemingly individual skull-shell half the size from which nothing springs. A breastfast juggled to a womblike performance – a cornerstone of the First Form. A cornerstone with no height or width or depth, and no hope or faith either.
The axes and the plows came along later. Trimmers and tillers. Awareness brought them on first. I am Here. I am There too. Each arc, each corner came to an understanding that nothing can become unbroken. Root, trunk, limbs, leave are inseparable in tree forming. Understanding allows them to branch out. The Forms grow in the solution of understanding alone. Betweeners are the trimmers and tillers, yet a leaf, a single universe, was yet to bud. No need to go any further than Betweeners and us groves.
Some do though. Shade-seekers who want something for nothing. No shade in this light. Soulless meddlers. Hollowed rolling stones in need of sap for syrupy substance. Bark strippers. Nasty nuts of unconsciousness ready to break wind. This is all there is. Personification, a forest of trees and groves unseen before any period.
***
Grandfather Takis brought his organics home to roost and asked granddaughter Gloama what she thought the Tree story told her.
“I am the conclusion of a poetic devise. I don’t know what my children are.”
Grandfather responded distinctly, “The children are thunder in a whisper, child.”
Defiant, Gloama said, “And nowhere near this tree or me appeared a flash of lightning.”
Takis sensed his mindanheart strewn about an unknown command in Gloama’s angry words directed solely at him. He found himself without the friction of his soul as a striking board and knew what she did not, his soul had flown unattached to her own. And, free will or not, the old shaman’s soul had its own business to attend to.
***
This next scene will be mine, orndorff. Some things cannot be made so simple as to just mimic present known thinking.
I know about the “exchanging of souls” Amorella.
There is no exchange here in a transmigration of the soul. One, a more ancient soul envelopes another, younger, soul. Think of the soul (in this case) as a filament in a still common light bulb. Turn on the electric and it glows. Granddaughter’s filament is suddenly surrounded, insulated. Grandfather’s soul absorbs and thickens so it might reach a brighter intensity, let’s say from her fifty watts to one-hundred and fifty watts. One soul serves two now bound hearts. One soul can serve the entire population of the Dead.
So, this is possible in the story?
It is inevitable.
Why? How is the story strengthened by such a contrived device?
It brings them down, boy.
One large fish gobbles up all the smaller fish?
Then the large fish dies having nothing more to eat.
What happens then?
Well, fish are not souls. In the souls’ case they all stink to high heaven.
This is a sick joke, Amorella. I am surprised.
A soul’s business is no joke, boy. I’ll work out the next scene tomorrow. Post. – Amorella.
I think this is all falling apart, Amorella. It doesn’t make sense. My brain must be burnt out.
The soon-to-be-rising sun in Elysium has to come from somewhere, boy. Now post.
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